Stroke
by Zizi.West
Summary: On their first date, she asked Endeavour Morse: "It's full time with you, isn't it?" Nurse Monica Hicks also thinks about her job while she's off duty - especially after the well-to-do victim of a suspicious car accident arrive at the hospital where she works. Find out what she and the detective, who is learning more about his emotions and himself, do after hours.
1. High and Low

**STROKE**

A Monica Hicks/Endeavour Morse fanfiction story

Author: Zizi West

Word count: 5,852

_Disclaimer: _I do not own these characters and do not profit from them. Story content &amp; style are all mine.

Warnings: sexuality and social realities.

**Chapter One: High and Low**

"Odd git, Morse," the policeman on desk duty said under his breath, scowling as the long-limbed detective first knocked a sheaf of papers to the floor, then carefully re-stacked and squared it up in a wire basket, clearing his desk before leaving for the day.

A younger policeman, on the force for less than a year, overheard. "May be odd, but he's not stupid."

"And how would you know, Parry?" demanded the policeman. "You've hardly been here five minutes. Check behind your ears to see if they're completely dry, mate."

Blushing, the junior officer persisted. "He seems to know how to find what others miss, sort things out. Solve puzzles. Notices what others don't see."

Endeavour Morse stepped back from his desk. At least they'd lowered their voices during this latest deconstruction of his character. No matter. In seconds he'd be out of the building and striding back to his flat.

Pub? Not tonight. detective Inspector Thursday had left police headquarters early to attend to a family matter, and the prospect of sitting in the pub without the older man's conversation didn't appeal. Morse had little to add to discussions of sport and quickly wearied of listening to other men drone on about the female sex as though they were a dimwitted yet threatening alien species. Why listen to that tosh when he could be in the warm, living presence of a rather lovely woman? Monica had left him a note that morning to tell him that she'd be home early, free for a few precious hours from the strenuous rotations of her hospital work schedule. Endeavour had kept the small square of smooth light blue paper with her neat, clear handwriting. His fingertips brushed against it now as he checked his trouser pocket for his keys.

"Leaving, earlier than usual, Morse?" Parry asked.

"Yes...a few things to see to. Good evening." Nodding at Parry and the desk officer, Morse left, buttoning his overcoat as he went.

"Probably needs a 'seeing to'_ himself_. That might sort him out," muttered the policeman at the desk.

"He's not bloody likely to get any," one of the constables said dryly. "I doubt Morse has much of a way with the ladies."

"Absolutely hopeless," the other man agreed. "Pity he never studied_ that._ There are some things a university lecture can't teach you."

…

The Vespa 150 VBB scooter buzzed more than it purred, then made a low _clunk _sound as though its two-stroke engine felt dissatisfied _About time I took you in to the repair shop, dear thing, _Monica Hicks thought.

Vibrations moved up through the well-sprung scooter seat to her hipbones as she drove over smoother sections of tarmac. If only those vibrations would reach her aching lower back! She knew about various vibrating massage devices said to ease tension and bring relief to parts of the body - including some rather private places - but they were expensive and she felt shy about buying one at the chemist's, where everyone knew her. Well managed as the hospital was, staff provisions didn't include physiotherapy equipment provided to help staff recover from a long and busy shift.

Braking, Monica paused at an intersection while pedestrians crossed. She listened carefully to the idling engine, noting a sharp, high tone. Students and full-time Oxonians moved past, some nicely dressed as though anticipating social events. Waiting gave her a moment to flex and rotate one ankle, then the other.

She'd been on her feet much of the day: making her assigned rounds, bending, stretching, and helping the groggy victim of a car accident when emergency staff had been shorthanded. Two strong orderlies got him onto an examination table just before the man, redolent of sweat and alcohol, vomited. Monica and Charity, a junior nurse who often worked with her, rushed to clean the patient up as the attending doctor glared impatiently.

"Sorry to ruin your suit, sir, but it's so we can help you more quickly," Monica said as she used scissors to cut through the patient's fine wool trousers and jacket, both stained with blood. The man groaned an unintelligible response. As his jacket came away she fleetingly noticed the smooth hand of the fabric, the flat seams and crisp tailoring, but her real concern lay with the injuries beneath. _Toff or working man, they all bleed alike_, she thought.

"Nurse! Can't you get his shirt off faster?" the doctor said irritably.

Monica kept her voice level. "Sorry, Doctor Amies." Holding the scissors in an open position, Monica sliced up and along the grain of the fabric so that she could pull it away in large pieces. It was a technique she'd used when cutting cloth to sew. She peeled away the man's bloody shirtfront and dropped it into a bin with his other ruined clothing.

"No...look, that girl..." The man kept trying to speak, gesturing weakly with his right hand. As she usually did with agitated patients, Monica tried to say soothing, meaningless things. "Easy there, sir. Soon this will be over."

"She...right here. Don't let her..." the man groaned. Monica's breath caught and her shoulders tensed. Certain patients openly questioned Monica's cleanliness, training, and abilities, or insisted that her voice was too loud while they demanded a 'real English' nurse. Locking eyes with Charity, Monica stepped aside and they began a familiar routine. Monica would clean her hands to prevent cross-contamination, then continue to work side-by-side while the brunette, gray-eyed Charity stood working in the person's line of vision. Usually the complaints stopped as a result. Neither of the women liked bending to racial prejudice, but this was an emergency.

Suddenly the man's eyes opened fully and he locked eyes with Monica. "Please, miss...careful. One of you -" his face went slack as he fainted.

Charity moved forward with a disinfectant-soaked sponge in her hand to clean off the blood and uncovered a long gash. "He's been stabbed!" she cried.

"Useless – move!" Dr. Amies shoved both nurses aside and took over. Monica flinched, hurt more by the implication that she worked badly than by his knobbly elbows. Charity glared at the back of Dr. Amies' head, mouthing an impolite, silent insult. If Amies hadn't been a doctor, Charity might have said a few words with a bite much sharper than the disinfectant used in Accident and Emergency. The junior nurse was nice enough to Monica, but her ready temper was at odds with her name.

Monica cleaned up and resumed working. Dr. Amies continued to curse and bark commands, but she respected his skill. Quickly, the doctor ensured that death was not imminent.

Like the man's shirt, the jacket was a loss. A strong smell of alcohol still clung to the clothes. Monica spread the contents of his pockets out on a square of paper before wrapping them into a parcel, writing down the contents on a form: one small comb, a few coins, a wallet made from smooth leather. Nothing inside the wallet identified him, as all it contained were a few high denomination pound notes. Stabbed, but not robbed? Frowning, she slid a finger into a nearly hidden interior pocket of the wallet and withdrew a business card edged with gold.

_Club Crastino_

_in flagrante delicto_

_compos sui_

A telephone number and small image of a laughing face with horns on its head appeared below the text. There were no bloodstains on the card. Monica paused, frowning. Before Dr. Amies pushed her aside, she'd had seen enough of the wound to know that it angled down, a long, angry slash. Neither his jacket nor his shirt were torn. Why would someone put on their clothes – _nice _clothes – over a bloody wound and get into a car? Had the man hoped to conceal the injury until he reached a safe place?

None of it was any of her business, but she couldn't help thinking of Endeavour and the inevitable inquiries from the police. It was possible that Dev would never have anything to do with this situation; the patient wasn't even dead. However, he certainly hadn't stabbed _himself_.

...

Now, as Monica released the scooter's brake and motored on, she wondered about the patient and how he'd come to such misfortune. The cut of his charcoal gray suit looked too conservative to mark him as a bar owner or vendor of goods, legal or otherwise. Professor, researcher, businessman, foreign visitor? Knife wounds before a car accident seemed unusual. Had someone robbed him, or was it a crime of passion?

Dev, as she affectionately called Endeavour Morse, might have seen similar cases while at work, but he so often thought about work while at home. She shouldn't ask him.

Still, she was curious.

…

Morse glanced around his small flat. The leaves of the potted plant looked recently watered. When had his few mismatched plates stacked themselves by size? Even his lone serving dish, glass edged with cheap, thin silver plate, shone as though ready for an elegant dinner.

_Monica_.

She'd set things to rights with her usual quiet cheerfulness and he'd only just now noticed. Perhaps she'd done it over the weekend between shifts at the hospital. Despite his absorption with work and occasional inattention, Monica remained caring and kind, her efforts largely unacknowledged. The pretty nurse carried so many more keys on her ring than he did on his own – her own flat's key, her Vespa key, a key resembling the kind used for small household lock boxes, a key to the flat of family in London, and now a spare key to Morse's own flat.

Pensive, Morse rubbed the back of his neck. What had he done to reciprocate? On more than one occasion Fred Thursday had offered unsolicited advice on how to keep women happy. During visits to the Thursday home, Endeavour observed how the many small kindnesses Fred extended to Mrs. Thursday led to a feeling of comfort for the entire family. Pity that he wasn't good at imitating such an effective method. He should try harder.

Endeavour had carefully told Thursday little about Monica. Not her full name, certainly not where she lived, but the older man's understanding of human nature was keen.

"So she's nice, your young lady?" Thursday asked without preamble, during one evening at the pub.

Endeavour blushed, but managed not to spill his pint. "V-very."

"Good. Be sure to tell her _ahead _of time when you've got days off," Thursday said, and then allowed Morse to change the subject.

…

"Ooh!" Painful tension had settled in to Monica's lower back. Stretching and twisting didn't help enough, nor had the warm shower she'd taken. Shouting doctors, blood, the mistrust of patients – she ought to be used to it by now, but it wasn't easy to let go of all of it some days.

…

Morse was sometimes awkward when he attempted big gestures: trying to impress a woman with his choice of wine at dinner, giving her the right sort of flowers. The way he'd offered Monica his coat had more the coaxing friendliness of a country boy rather than the smooth words of a chivalrous knight, and he'd been surprised when his action lowered the last barriers to frank desire. Perhaps his courtship wasn't always smooth but he could try to do small things well. At least he remembered how she liked her tea. Perhaps he could help her maintain her scooter before he borrowed it again, help move furniture in her flat, do things men were supposed to do.

_Where was she?_ He'd heard her keys jingling nearly an hour earlier, but hadn't yet heard Monica's quiet knock on his door – she always knocked before entering, although she'd given her his spare key. Usually she took time for herself after work, changing out of her nurse's uniform, performing some sort of private feminine magic before he opened the door to see her serene, wearing her own clothes, her face tilted up for his kiss. Endeavour locked his own door behind him and crossed the hallway.

…

Monica exhaled as she leaned down to touch her toes, hoping to relax enough to enjoy Dev's company for a few hours. Another night in with the phonograph would be cozy, but she wished that he'd go to the cinema with her instead, or to agree to take her to one of the more affordable concerts at the weekend. London offered more choices for entertainment, but that was only a daydream. Hotels were expensive and the idea of having a man – detective or not – sleeping under the same roof with their unmarried daughter would send even the most worldly of her family into an apoplexy.

Perhaps she should set her alarm and have a short kip with a hot water bottle nestled against the small of her back. Sighing, Monica wrapped a towel around herself just as a knock sounded at the door.

...

No sound came from her flat. Morse frowned. As his knuckles hovered above the door, Mrs. Tweed, one of the other neighbors turned the corner from the stairway and walked towards him. Her footsteps halted when she saw her tall, blond neighbor outside Monica's door.

"Yes, hello?" Monica said, her voice muffled by the wood.

"Mon – ah, Miss Hicks, it's Morse." He made eye contact with the neighbor as she paused in front of her own flat, two doors down. "Good evening, Mrs. Tweed," he said loudly.

The woman stared at him with open curiosity. "And a good evening to to you, too." She raised both eyebrows. "Nowt wrong, is there?"

"No trouble at all," he replied firmly. Mrs. Tweed lingered, dithering with her handbag and keys.

Monica quickly understood his formality as a caution. "Just a moment, Mr. Morse." Her voice sounded prim, as though she were answering a phone call at work. When Monica opened the door, Endeavour began speaking right away. "Sorry to bother you, Miss Hicks." He tilted his head slightly to the right.

Monica wore an unfastened dressing gown thrown hurriedly over a towel; Endeavour's eyes widened appreciatively, and a corner of his mouth titled up. Monica pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.

Keys jingled two doors down as Mrs. Tweed fumbled with her door and pretended not to watch and listen. Endeavour's eyes narrowed; he crossed his arms and turned his head to look down the hall.

"Problem, Mrs. Tweed?"

"No!" Mrs. Smith cleared her throat. Suddenly the lock worked perfectly enough for her to dash inside and slam her door.

Endeavour and Monica stifled their laughter as she let him in, closing the door against the world. Just as it had been the first time he'd briefly stepped inside, Monica's flat was tidier and more sparsely furnished than his own.

_Each of us spends more time at work than at home_, Endeavour thought. Monica didn't wear shoes inside her own flat, so he removed his own without being asked. A Pan Am airline calendar, a poster from a concert series in London, and a few framed photographs hung on two walls. Some of the photographs were of Black people of various ages: family in and outside England. Larger photographs showed three different groups of nurses: one group mostly West Indian women and one woman who looked Indian; the second all White English women except for Monica; the third, all White English women aside from Monica and a few other Black women. All were photos from Monica's training courses or workplaces. Endeavour kept the lone image of his father inside an envelope. He had no photographs of Monica.

Endeavour noticed the hopeful tilt of Monica's chin and leaned down for a kiss. "Are you all right?"

"I'm just tired, and my back hurts enough to make me wish that I'd stayed at work and sneaked into one of the hydrotherapy tubs. Do you think that Mrs. Tweed knows about us?"

"I don't care if she does. This is Britain and we're both past the age of consent. Lie down; I'll rub your back."

"Massage is among your many talents?" Monica raised both eyebrows, but found an extra towel and spread it over the bed.

"Not really, but I'll do my best for you." Endeavour began to roll up his sleeves. "Tell me if it hurts and I'll stop."

"Thank you, I see that I'm in for a rare treat. Please, turn the water up as warm as you can bear it while you're washing your hands," she advised as she lay down. "That's what I do for patients before applying liniment or cream to bare skin."

"Right," he said, running his hands under the tap. The tiny bathroom smelled faintly of bleach, overlaid with the sweet scents of cosmetic preparations and soap.

Her voice was soft, as though she'd begun to relax simply because he was there. "Look for the cream-coloured plastic bottle."

Endeavour carried it over to the bed, glancing at the label as he sat down: _Palmer's Skin Cream with Cocoa Butter._ Opening it, he poured a small amount of it into his palm to warm it, inhaling the chocolaty fragrance. "Mm. So that's how you keep yourself so delicious."

Giggling, Monica raised her head to look at him. "It's nice to use on a winter morning. Makes you want to lick yourself."

"Makes _me_ want to lick _you_." Endeavour spread the cream over her back, feeling her arch, stretch, then loosen up in response to his touch. He stroked her legs and thighs, pressing down; tiny groans escaped her throat, and he smiled. The cocoa butter made her already smooth skin feel like a satin dress he'd once touched, a dress worn by a different woman he'd been attracted to but hadn't gone very far with. He'd never touched her in the way that made this woman feel so good.

Morse warmed more cream in his hands and retraced the path of his hands, massaging her shoulders. "Where do you find this stuff?"

"London, whenever I make family visits," Monica replied, her eyes half closed.

"Posh lady, with your London tastes...but then you can't always find what you need in Oxford, can you?"

"Observant gentleman." Monica smiled. "African and Caribbean shops sell cocoa butter, hair preparations, properly tinted cosmetics from America," she said. "Sometimes my cousin sends me parcels."

"That's kind. Must be nice to have people look after you." He pressed and stroked the muscles along her spine. The world must look very different to her in some ways, for all that she was English. As though sensing his thoughts, she changed the subject. "Cocoa butter is very good for the skin. Let me put some on you, Dev. Not that you aren't already delightful to hold on to."

Endeavour grinned. "No one's ever called me _delightful_."

"Ah, but they should do." She stretched beneath his hands again, her hips undulating. "Mmm."

Dev stopped breathing, swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment. He undid a few shirt buttons and continued the massage, concentrating on her lower back.

"Ooh, yes, Dev...just like that. Mmm, thank you for all of this. I've been tense for hours."

"Something unusual happen at the hospital today?"

Monica told him about the stabbed man, the brusque Dr. Amies, and her routine with Charity.

"Hmm. People should be grateful that the NHS exists. They're rude and ignorant. You wouldn't be at that hospital if you weren't qualified. How often do you do that race routine?"

"Less often than when I started in nursing, but more often than I'd like. Really, now I'm not sure that it we needed the routine this time. I'm not sure _who_ that man meant by what he said before he fainted: 'One of you'. But before that he called me 'miss', respectfully, and told me to be careful. Of what, I don't know. He may have been delirious. Maybe he meant West Indians? Or women?" She sighed. "Patients should just let me help them. Will that day ever come?"

"For some. Others will keep being suspicious," Morse said. The movement of his hands slowed. "Stabbed, you said. How?"

"A long wound, down. As though someone held the knife like this." Monica gestured. "Missed his lungs and heart, though it was on the left. He'll have very sore ribs too. Little risk of infection as of tonight; he should be able to go home in a few days. The police were informed, but no information about a missing person had been communicated to staff by the time I left." She turned onto her side, modestly holding the towel over the front of her body. "Something's a bit off about this whole thing, if you ask me. Do you think you'll be assigned this case? Whoever stabbed him didn't rob him; this man was still carrying five ten-pound notes."

Dev frowned slightly. "What else? No cards, papers, identification?"

Monica rolled her eyes. "And to think that tonight of all nights, I thought to avoid talking about work with you! No identification, and he was drunk and in pain. Never told us his name, family to call, nothing. I only found one card, and that without a name."

"Mm." Endeavour's long fingers flexed, and he glanced around, then seized a small pad of blue notepaper from the bedside table. "Need a biro -"

Monica sighed, and pointed at a drawer in the table. Endeavour pulled out a pen and handed it to Monica with the paper.

"Please write down exactly what you saw on that card."

Carefully, she drew a rectangle the size of the card, sketched the laughing devil's head, and wrote down all she could remember, hesitating at the last line.

"I'm not certain the telephone number is right, and there were more words – something Latin, not a medical term. The nuns at school taught us the Greek words in the Order of Service – _kyrie eleison –_ but we weren't taught much Latin."

"Can you try anyway? I may recognize it."

The pen moved across the little rectangle. _Flagrante delicio_, _compos sui, _she wrote, adding apologetically, "That's not it exactly."

Dev made a sound that was, for him, close to a laugh. "_In flagrante delicto," _he corrected gently. "It means to be caught in the act of committing an offense, that offense usually understood to be a sexual act. _Compos sui _means 'having the use of one's limbs'. Doubtful that it's used in the legal sense here. Don't think one will find the Crastino Club in the telephone directory either. _Crastino_, more Latin. Means tomorrow, or the day after."

"Procrastinate," Monica said.

"Exactly. The Tomorrow Club." Endeavour looked pensive. "How would you describe this man?"

"Fifty, perhaps. Hair barely greyed at the temples. Perhaps handsome under better circumstances. Life treated him well until tonight. Wealthy people often look...cared for, quite different to many people who come to our hospital."

Dev's expression sobered. "Shouldn't wonder," he said dryly. "How was this man when you left?"

"Resting quietly. The pain medication he'll be given may make him difficult to understand when you go in to talk to him as part of your investigation."

"_When?_ Monica, I may never have anything to do with this case, if there's enough to build a case at all."

She wrapped the towel around herself and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. "Perhaps not. But you're already interested in this, and you won't let it go until you know more. May as well begin writing up your plan for the investigation." She reached for her dressing gown. "Those are all of the details I've got, Detective Inspector. Thank you for the massage. Would you like tea?"

"'Ere now, take that off." Dev slid the sleeve off her shoulder. "What sort of masseur do you think I am, leaving a lady unsatisfied?"

"You're busy. I understand," she shrugged. "No other member of my harem has a side job with the police. You're still my favorite."

"Send the rest of your harem away on holiday." Endeavour smiled as he coaxed her back into her original position on the bed. "Yes, I was distracted. Never said that I was finished." He pressed a kiss to her neck, then sucked her skin between his teeth, and Monica's toes curled.

"You're so...smooth." Endeavour's hands wandered, not simply massaging now, but caressing her hips, shoulders, her belly, her legs. "Ah, Monica, I didn't _know_."

"Dev, you've touched my bare skin before."

"We should save coins to leave the lights on. All of you is so beautiful." His voice held a rare sound of raw yearning; Monica touched his face.

"I mean it. Beautiful here," he leaned down to kiss her face, "here," he continued, moving so that he could kiss her nipple, "and here too." Endeavour planted a slightly wetter kiss on to the place where her hip and thigh joined.

"Also _here_, though I won't tell anyone." Turning her over, he gently bit the curve of one buttock, and she giggled. "When I finish rubbing your back, turn over and I'll tell you what else I like."

One hip tilted as she began to do just that, but his long fingers curled around her hip and held her in place. "Just a moment, Miss."

"Back to formal address? Aren't you polite, saying 'Miss' while I'm undressed." Monica felt the mattress dip slightly as Endeavour rose up on his knees.

"Nude or not, you're always a lady as I see it." White cloth flew over the side of the bed and landed on a chair - his shirt, followed immediately by another flash: his singlet. Monica rolled onto her side and sat up, holding the towel at a tantalizingly low place over her cleavage.

"Lay back down, woman," he teased.

Monica's gaze dropped to his waist as Endeavour stood at the foot of the bed, unfastening his trousers. "What, and miss seeing this? Not me."

A rosy flush spread across his face, neck, and chest, but Dev looked more pleased than embarrassed. He pulled his trousers down over his hips, worked his feet free of his socks. The front of his shorts seemed barely able to contain him as his erection pressed against the thin cotton. Monica inhaled sharply, audibly. Dev's blush spread a little further, and she saw his chest rise and fall more quickly.

"Excited?" she asked quietly.

The raw sound returned to his voice. "For you."

She felt her own body opening, softening, her pulse racing. "Do you like being admired, Dev?"

Smiling, he nodded. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the towel, and her voice sounded unsteady in her own ears. "Do you like being wanted?"

Endeavour's lips parted slightly; he drew in a shuddering breath. "Yes."

Between her legs she felt slippery and full, almost aching. "Does it bother you that I like...what we do together...so much?"

His eyes widened with the earnest expression she'd become too fond of. "No one else had touched me for a long time until you helped me, looked after my back. Almost no one touches me unless they mean to give me a kicking. I _want_ you to touch me." Endeavour moved closer.

Monica lowered her feet to the floor and stood, tossing the towel onto the bed. Endeavour pulled her close. She touched him everywhere she could reach. A slight tug on a handful of his hair; the pads of her fingers gliding along the planes of his cheekbones. Her lips brushed the hardness of his chest; her little finger traced a circle around his navel. When her hands reached the waistband of his boxer shorts her boldness faltered.

"Please," Endeavour said, "if you want -"

Monica pressed her hands flat over his hips to stop their trembling. "It's obvious, isn't it, that I've never done this before? Undressed a man, I mean. Unless it was for work. Oh!" She fought the awkward flow of words as she felt her face grow hot. "I'm not being glamorous or seductive right now."

"Really? I feel very well seduced." He smiled and kissed her. "Let's make it easier." His warm fingertips slid over the backs of her hands, and together they moved the shorts out of the way and down his legs.

Endeavour reached for her hand. "I didn't come here tonight just for this," he said, "if you're still worried."

"This isn't why I let you in tonight," Monica answered, which was only half true. She liked his company, yes. No part of her working day had prepared her to be standing nude and face to face with an equally nude Dev before she'd even had supper. Not that she objected. She wanted him quite fiercely, in any way that she could have him. Even if they only lay in bed talking Monica wouldn't protest as long as she felt his skin touching hers.

But of course she wouldn't tell Dev any of that, despite his earlier reassurances. Perhaps a hundred years from now, women would speak honestly about their physical desires without fear that their behavior might later be turned against them. The men they wanted would accept their women's words, basking in them without judgment or worrisome fragments of ideas about what a decent woman wanted from a man. Until that day, she would look and touch and be careful.

As though reading her thoughts, Endeavour took the lead, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her deeply. Monica kissed him back, touching her tongue to his; goosebumps rose on her skin when he groaned in response. Within seconds the hardness poking at her belly made it difficult to maintain their embrace. Endeavour pulled away and lifted Monica into his arms, drawing a surprised squeal from her; she knew he had a wiry strength suited to his build, but she hadn't thought of him as the musclebound type who would carry her off. Dev could be strong and passionate, and she was going to enjoy learning just how much.

"Let's leave the lights on," he said. "I want to you to see every time I touch you."

A _clunk_ sounded from the meter, plunging the room into darkness and prompting a disgusted grumble from Endeavour. "Or perhaps not."

Monica kissed his cheek. "Put me down for a moment."

Unwished-for cool air flowed over his body as she moved away into the room, which was faintly illuminated by moonlight and street light shining through a gap in the curtains. Endeavour heard a drawer opening and closing while he willed his erection not to go completely down. There was a scratch, the acrid smell of a safety match, and a candle flared to life. He saw the outline of her shoulders, her bare breasts, her hands as she placed a second candle into a candlestick and lit it. Monica turned to face him in the golden light, and Endeavour felt himself stir back to life.

"Oh," he said, and they reached for each other. It wasn't quite clear who pulled who down onto the bed first.

…

"Rather nice, those candles. Nurses are prepared for anything," Endeavour murmured against the rise of her breast, an hour later. The short nap he'd taken seemed to have recharged him; he wanted to be awake and talking to Monica.

"Hmm, not quite." Monica played with his hair and idly stroked his shoulders in the dim light. "Next time you come over, bring more..." – she pushed her hips against his – "...you know."

After her first time sleeping with Dev on Guy Fawkes Night, Monica had quietly purchased a box of condoms from one of the other nurses at work. The other nurse charged a markup when reselling the prophylactics to more bashful women, but Monica spent the few extra pence without complaint. She preferred to avoid being stared at in the local chemist's by other customers, some of whom might assume West Indian or African girls had hot blood and hotter physical inclinations. The nurses in the nearest family planning clinic knew her by sight, and none of Monica's jewelry could pass for a wedding ring. Morse had his own supply, but she wanted to keep a box in her own flat for spontaneous occasions such as this one.

Unfortunately, the condoms were only three to a pack. _Goodness!_ Never in her life had Monica imagined that she'd indulge her physical desires – and emotional desires too, if she were honest – so enthusiastically as she did with Dev.

Endeavour leaned on one elbow and blinked at her. "No, I don't know. Bring what?" he asked, all innocence.

"You know. More of _those_." She pushed her hips against him again.

He wiggled his hips back. "Come on, say it."

"Dev!"

He moved over her and settled between her thighs, smiling. "More what? You may have more of _this_ any time you like." Slowly, he rotated his hips, reminding her of the pleasure he could give with them. Monica felt herself opening to him again before she controlled her breathing and said, "Slow down, you randy fellow. We just used the last one in the pack."

"I'll buy more tomorrow." He dropped a kiss onto her forehead. "Would you like to go out? It's only seven-thirty."

Before she could say anything, Monica's stomach growled. "Hear that? Your sensual abilities are so powerful that I've burned off everything I ate earlier today."

Endeavour made a scoffing sound, but smiled anyway. "That's a yes, then. I'm taking you to dinner." He hadn't taken her out often enough; here was another chance to prove himself. He kissed her breasts and belly as he left the bed, making her quiver and squirm before he stood up and began to put on enough clothing to decently return to his flat. Monica watched him with an expression he found difficult to read.

"I'll go wash up." Endeavour pulled a coin from his trouser pocket and fed it into the meter; the lights came back on. "Meet you in twenty minutes?"

Monica had donned her dressing gown again; the tension was gone from her shoulders and her hips swayed as she crossed the room to blow out the candles. Her small, knowing smile made her look both sensual and untouched, as calm as the Mona Lisa.

"Twenty-five," she amended, blowing him a kiss. Endeavour pretended to catch it, making her giggle as he slipped out the door.

Endeavour Morse was still smiling when he leaned over the basin to wash his face. He was washed and dressed in twelve minutes. The remaining thirteen he spent writing notes on the case of the stabbed man in the well-cut suit.

# # #

Thank you for reading, and please take time to post a review if you like. This story doesn't follow a strict timeline in relation to the actual _Endeavour_ series, although it takes place following the _Sway_ episode. Next chapter may be up in late January / early February (time permitting).

NOTE: Monica's feelings and experiences – particularly with regard to race, sexuality and gender - are intended to be generally representative of the social and cultural realities of the time, although obviously individual women's experiences varied. Morse, although not especially political, is intelligent and empathetic enough to want to know more about the woman he's spending time with, so it makes little sense for him to ignore or refuse to listen to what Monica tells him.

Although birth control was becoming more widely available in 1966, attitudes about unmarried women's sexuality changed slowly. Monica's most accessible options would have included The Pill, a cervical cap, and condoms. As a nurse with the NHS she would be well informed about how to get these for herself; however, her personal experiences and concerns about how she was perceived might have made her cautious about how and where she obtained birth control. In those times (and in our own time) a woman's personal behavior might still be linked to her professional life.

In addition to various websites and digital publications, many excellent books about the historical experiences of Black British people are available. Please visit a local library or academic library to find out more; it takes more than a keyword search to find out some things!


	2. Living a Contradiction

**STROKE**

An _Endeavour_ fanfiction story

Creative Commons license: Zizi West, author

**NOTE**: This story is an original work and does not adhere closely to Morse canon.

**Warnings**: impolite language; references to social realities.

Characters: Monica Hicks, OCs

* * *

**Chapter 2: Living a Contradiction**

All human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret.

Source: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, from _Gabriel García Márquez: a Life_

…

"The skirt's _this _high. Just like they're wearing 'em in London," Patience said, tracing an invisible hemline above her knee. "It'll be a mini dress after I finish hemming it. Going to a birthday party on Saturday, and I want to be in fashion." She exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Monica, her nursing colleague and friend. The three other nurses seated around the staff lounge table smiled over their tea.

"Maybe give your boyfriend an eyeful, too," drawled a nurse named Charity.

"Patience, you temptress," Monica teased, "you always say that Charlie's a nice, churchgoing lad. He likes you for your mind and good character."

"Oh, he does! Wouldn't bother with Charlie if he didn't listen to me. The miniskirt's just a tactical advantage to keep his attention. A woman's got to use all weapons at her disposal." Patience winked. Monica was quite sure that she'd never seen Patience blush.

Monica said, "Maybe our minds will be more important in the future. The world's changing. Perhaps ten years from now, maybe it will seem completely normal for women to own their own businesses, cars, houses, or for us to be diplomats, or Prime Minister –"

Lucy, one of the other nurses, scoffed. "Pssh! Are there drugs in your tea? Men _never_ let women take charge." Lucy, a junior nurse, was still a few months new to the hospital. Chatty, pretty, fond of clothes, men, and talking about herself, Lucy was speedily accepted into the staff social life. Much more quickly than she herself had, Monica believed, although she'd tried to be polite and approachable. The difference in treatment wasn't Lucy's fault; she sparkled, while Monica was quieter, and it was easy to overlook quiet people. She shouldn't feel hurt by it, but it still bothered Monica.

"Men really do understand some things better. Maths and such," Charity drained her teacup and crossed her arms defensively.

"They're just rubbish at, well, personal things," Lucy said, unsmiling. Looking almost childishly vulnerable, she stared into her cup as though remembering something sad or seeking guidance her future in the tea leaves. Monica smiled at her sympathetically.

Charity sighed. "Ladies ought to stick to jobs where emotions are useful. Wouldn't trust a woman to run a country, meself."

"Well, why not?" asked Monica. "Indira Gandhi is a leader. She's even gone to America to meet the President. Women are intelligent. Can't we do different jobs? Women have always worked in some way, we _have_ to. I'm glad to be part of the labor force."

"Well, they _did_ bring you people over her to help rebuild after the war, and I've seen plenty of coloured women working in London," Fay said. "Sweeping floors, hospital orderlies. Taking tickets for London transport." Fay had traveled to London a grand total of three times and spoke of the city as though she possessed intimate knowledge of it. Whenever Monica mentioned her years living there, Fay never seemed to be listening and would change the subject.

Silence fell. _You people_. Monica took a deep breath, feeling her face grow warm as blood rose to her cheeks. She didn't dislike Fay, although the woman's attitude towards her varied unpredictably from indifferent to mildly friendly. _She's a bit younger than I am_, Monica thought, _still learning how to interact with people different to herself. I should have a more forgiving attitude_.

Choosing the peaceful path, Monica said, "There's no shame in being a cleaner or mechanic. My aunt and uncle both work as cleaners in London. They just bought a second house in Brixton, and are letting it out. They did it all with hard work and tight fists."

"Good for them, I suppose, but who'd want to live _there_ with all sorts? The _things_ I heard about Brixton while I was in London." Fay shuddered theatrically. "It must be cheaper to buy there."

"And you've spent _how _much time in Brixton, may I ask? Mixed with the locals much?" Monica knew that her tone sounded snappish, but didn't apologize even though she feared sounding mean.

Fay's arched brows pulled together in genuine bewilderment. "A person just can't say anything around you, can they? We British _do_ have certain standards."

"Monica _is_ British," snapped Patience. "Aren't we all supposed to pull together? The common good and all that?"

Fay rolled her eyes and raised a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. "Britain needs to grow stronger. New people should be grateful and learn to fit in – not _complain_. That 'rising tide lifts all boats' idea can't work when some people make waves." Standing, Fay smoothed her uniform over her neat, shapely figure. "Back to work." Turning, she left the room with her head held high.

Suddenly, everyone else at the table had to leave too, clearing away the teapot and cups in a matter of seconds. Only Patience made eye contact with Monica as the room emptied.

"How awful! Saying those nasty things, and you sitting right here!"

Monica scooped out the spent tea leaves before she rinsed out the teapot. "People say all of that and worse quite often. Thanks for being on my side; nobody else wants to know."

"Humph. Don't know how you stand it," Patience grumbled, wiping down the table with a sponge.

"Got no choice," Monica sighed.

Patience rinsed and wrung out the sponge forcefully. "I'd tell her to stick her ignorant prattle into a suppository and shove it up her arse."

Monica gasped, then bent over the sink laughing. "Shhh, Patty! If Head Nurse hears you, she'll make you put coins in the swear box." Attempting to lighten the mood, Monica lifted a dented tea tin from a shelf and rattled the coins inside. "Ooh, the swear box feels heavy. This must be a hard week for nurses."

Patience let the matter drop. "Yeah, it's been a busy month. I'm really looking forward to the weekend. D'you want a lift to the party on Saturday? I'll ask Charlie to stop by for you after he picks me up. You won't have to ride the bus alone late at night."

"That's kind, thank you." Monica finished washing her tea mug and rinsed it. "But I'm thinking of asking someone to be my date."

Patience grinned. "Get _you_, asking a fella out. Anyone I know?"

Monica lowered her voice. "Not yet. He lives in the flat across from mine."

Patience's eyes widened. "Your neighbor? Sure that's a good idea? You _like_ your flat. Might have to move if things go tits up with him."

Monica stifled a laugh. "Hmm, wonder if the swear box accepts cheques. You're racking up quite a bill."

Sighing, Patience shook her head. "Speaking as a friend, Monica, it's nice that he's interested in you, but a _neighbor_? You know how blokes are, and I think I know how _you_ are: careful about your money and your heart. Too careful to go breaking a lease because of problems with men. So, who is he?"

"Nice, shy chap named Endeavour. Likes music and solving puzzles – crosswords and other types." Monica placed her mug on a rack to air dry.

"_Endeavour_? Are his parents religious fanatics, naming him like that? Met 'em yet?"

"No, they've passed on, sadly. He doesn't seem to care for the name so I just call him Dev. He's with the police."

Patience rolled her eyes expressively. "How original. Another nurse dating a copper. Well, now I've got to meet him and see if he's up to scratch."

"So far, he's all right. A bit fond of his own company, but he'll socialize when asked." Monica dried her hands. "Normally I'd worry about the neighbor bit, but I liked him enough to say yes to dinner." She didn't mention the fact that she was tending to his bare back when he first asked her, or the obstacles delaying that first dinner, or that Morse was distracted by thoughts of an investigation when she finally sat across a table from him. Since then he was learning to be somewhat more attentive.

"Don't say yes to everything," Patience warned, speaking as though she could read Monica's facial expression and her thoughts. "Make him work for your time and attention. He should be able to tell you what he likes about you, take you seriously."

_Too late…but Dev says yes to me, when I'm willing to ask. _"Oh, Pats, I know you're keeping a watch out for me, and thanks. I'd do the same for you. So far he's been nice; he doesn't say how he feels, but I don't think he'll be cruel to me. Well, not deliberately, but -"

Pretending not to see Patience's frown, Monica glanced up at the clock. "Right, my break's over. I'm going to make my rounds, starting with Mr. Smythe, ending with the Man with No Name, our accident and stabbing victim from last night. Talk to you later."

…

"Home soon, the doctor says," Monica said to Mrs. Rao. "You seem to be healing well." Mrs. Rao (appendix, room number 240) offered a tired half-smile of her own in response and silently let her vital signs be checked and recorded.

If only she had time to hear more stories from Mr. Pelekoudas (problems with liver function, room 243) of how he made cheese from sheep's milk – _feta_, he called it – and wine during his youth! No longer robust, he now battled age and illness. She imagined him standing tall, his full head of hair still black and wavy as he strode through vineyards beneath Greece's warm sun.

A familiar yearning to travel preoccupied her as she said goodbye to Mr. Pelekoudas and went to the next room. Could a woman travel alone to explore vineyards? Where in the wide world might people welcome her, a tourist of unexpected colour and sex?

Would Dev ever consider leaving the walls of work and routine he'd built around himself to travel with her? Quickly, she shut the travel fantasy down. It was too early to ask such questions, and the answer might prove painful.

More patients, more, sips of water, two linen changes, two elevated blood pressure readings. A few glares and mutterings about 'Blacks' (abdominal mass, room 245 and infection, 247), a bit of pleasant chatter from patients determined to be cheerful. Patient sick all over self (different abdominal mass, room 249), patient embarrassed and apologetic, moments of commiseration with orderlies. Vomit, again – patient sick in bed (hernia and possible nervous condition, room 251). Linen change. Hand washing, over and over and over again, done carefully, remembering to clean under her fingernails. Smells of antiseptic, and the sound of buckets and mops. Bending, lifting, stretching.

The boost of energy provided by the lump of sugar in her tea faded away to nothing, but Monica kept her chin up, her gaze observant, and her movements efficient. Had to, had to make sure that every patient was well looked after and felt that someone saw them as more than a body. Had to be sure that Head Nurse Lockett, Dr. Amies, all the other nurses, the patients saw that she knew her job and did it properly, worked hard, harder than some people thought she could, or was willing to. It was simply how things were in the world for girls like her. Monica's parents had warned her. _Do your best, always_. Never late, no Island Time. Never lazy. Never stupid. Never angry or even a bit cross. _There's a price for everything in this world, and some of us must pay it twice._

Room 253: victim of car accident and stabbing, the Man with No Name. Stabbing reported to the police last night, but if any detectives or constables had come to the hospital, she'd not heard about it yet. Blood pressure a bit higher than yesterday. At this hour, blood at the wound site appeared to be clotting normally. No changes to prescribed medication yet. The soporific effect of the painkillers seemed to have prevented him from tossing and turning during the night, and no additional patient occupied the other bed in the semi-private room. This was a quiet place to recuperate from someone else's rage.

Monica had just completed checking his vital signs and other parts of the necessary routine when the man fidgeted. She'd thought that was conscious the entire time, and spoke to him quietly, but he hadn't answered. Now he regarded her with serious gray eyes.

"It's good to see you're awake, sir." Monica changed position so that she could make better eye contact. "You were in a car accident, and someone hurt you with a knife. How do you feel?"

"Half dead," the Man with No Name muttered. "Need help, or else…finish the job."

"Believe me, we'll do our best to bring you fully back to life, sir. You're in hospital now, at Oxford. Today is a Friday. Will you tell me your name, please?" Monica pulled a small pad and pencil from her uniform pocket.

He looked away, as though reluctant to answer, then exhaled. "Peregrine Giles Reynolds. At least, that's who I used to be."

"Used to be, sir – I mean, Mr. Reynolds?"

"Ruined. All," the man sighed.

"Surely it's not so bad as all that. We'll do what we can here to help you get well. Please tell me how to reach your family, friends, anyone. Is there a Mrs. Reynolds?"

"Read the telephone directory, girl." He spoke with effort, as though more aware of the pain of his stab wounds. "You have my name; make the obvious calls. God, I _do_ prefer a private hospital." Reynolds went still and stared at her. "Which nurse will attend me here, other than you?"

Monica answered him calmly. "Nurse Smith, and Head Nurse Lockhart may look in on you, too. Why do you ask?"

"That," Peregrine Reynolds growled, "is none of your business."

Perplexed by the man's vague, curt words, Monica stepped away from the bed. Certain drugs made some patients behave oddly. Drugs or no drugs, this patient seemed angry about something.

"Sir, I'm leaving to get Dr. Amies. He'll want to see you now that you're awake and talking." The room had no telephone of its own, so she would have to go out and use the one near the nursing station.

Suddenly agitated, Reynolds moved as though trying to sit up. "You will come back, won't you?" he demanded. "You. Not the others."

She blinked. _Now he wants me to stay?_ "Of course. I'll just be a moment."

Monica hurried down the corridor towards the wall-mounted telephone. "Grumpy fellow." The long space was empty, hardly unusual for the early afternoon. Her stomach growled loudly as she placed the call, facing away from the door of room 253. She wasn't tired, because she and Dev hadn't stayed out particularly late last night. They'd only used the bed to sleep in cozy spoon position after a bit of kissing and cuddling (she'd become amorous and bitten Dev's neck, but he only made a purring noise and promised to make it up to her when he felt more energetic). She was hungry. _More than one egg at breakfast, that's what I need_.

The woman answering the phone at the other end was twice interrupted by people shouting – perhaps a distressed patient being calmed by hospital staff - but finally Monica made her request and was told that Dr. Amies was on his way. Finally ending the call, Monica turned around to see someone in a hat and coat running from the doorway of room 253.

"What -? You! You there, stop!" _What happened to my patient? _She dropped the phone's receiver with a loud clatter, and ran for room 253.

Monica's right foot slipped as she went down on one knee, falling into a smear of blood. At the last moment, she was able to press a shoulder against the wall, break the fall, and pull herself upright, her gaze seeking Reynolds.

"Oh, God!"

Dark red streaks ran down his gown and across the white sheets.

"_Help_!"

* * *

Thanks for taking time to read! Constructive critique welcome. Again, this story isn't following Inspector Morse canon particularly closely. Please allow for some flexibility re: timeline/people/places. Original characters and storyline are the intellectual property of Zizi West.

The chapter title is drawn from the writings of Steve Biko. "…Double consciousness is knowing the history offered up to black people—its many interpretations and echoes of white superiority and black inferiority, of white heroism and black cowardice, and even the temporal and geographical location of history's beginning as a step off of the African continent—is a falsehood that blacks are forced to treat as truth in so many countless ways. Double consciousness, in other words, is knowing a lie while living its contradiction." Source: _I Write What I Like: Selected Writings_, by Steve Biko.


	3. Presumed Incompetent

**STROKE**

An _Endeavour_ fanfiction story

Author: Zizi West

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters except the OCs, and don't profit from this. Original characters and storylines are my own. This story does not adhere strictly to Inspector Morse canon or medical or police procedure.

Warnings: blood, awareness of race

* * *

**Chapter 3: Presumed Incompetent**

_**Public Hospital Ward, Oxford**_

Taking a knife to an already injured person was either deep hatred or someone's twisted business, but Monica had no time to think about which.

She quickly folded a towel, using it as a barrier between her hands and the patient's body. That way, she wouldn't infect the wound and her hands wouldn't get too slippery to work. Rushing to the bed, she tried to locate the source of the bleeding so that she could apply pressure to stop it. The new wound seemed to be just below his left lung. She used her left hand to press down on what appeared thebe the source of the bleeding and used her right to reach for a supply cabinet nearby. Mr. Reynolds' face looked pale and blotchy, and his breathing was irregular.

"Help!" she shouted again. "Help, _please_!"

Jerking open a supply drawer, Monica found a large sterile dressing with one waxy side, tore off its wrapping, and covered the wound, leaving the fourth side open.

"_Breathe_, please!"

Mr. Reynolds inhaled, exhaled, and the loose fourth side let the air escape, preventing air from becoming trapped in the wound. Relieved, Monica grabbed another clean towel and lay it over the dressing, leaving one side clear. Mr. Reynolds groaned; his eyelids fluttered, but he held her gaze. Still conscious, then. Was his skin clammy? She couldn't feel it well enough through the towel, so she leaned sideways to rest her face against his. He was warm, and either confused or repelled by her touch because he flinched.

Nausea lurched through her belly as she pulled her face away from his. Blood didn't frighten her, but she promised to help people through her work. Would she fail?

Lucy, who was usually at the nurses' station at this hour, ran into the room, stopping suddenly in the doorway with a loud gasp, her nurse's cap tilting askew on her blond hair. "Monica! What have you _done_?"

Surprised by the other young woman's suspicious tone, Monica stammered, "W-what, _me_? Someone cut him! Get Head Nurse Green, or Doctor Amies. Hurry!"

One hand fumbling with a hairpin, Lucy backed out of the room.

Monica looked down at the patient's pale, mottled face."God help us. Don't die. I've only just learnt who you are!" Keeping steady pressure on the wound, she exhaled loudly in frustration. She and Lucy were about the same age, and had the same level of authority in the hospital: not much. Yet the other young woman spoke as though Monica had been careless, or intentionally hurt their patient. Now was not the time to worry about perceptions, but she couldn't help but feel the sting.

"Our Father, that art in heaven," she began in a low voice. Mr. – took a deeper, rasping breath. "Steady on, sir – Hallowed be thy name – help's coming – thy kingdom come, thy will -"

"Nurse Hicks!" Head Nurse Green appeared at her side, startling Monica, who had heard nothing for the last few seconds but the man's rasping breath, and blood pounding in her ears. Blue and white uniformed bodies, busy hands, concerned faces, and urgent voices swirled around her. Dr. Amies' voice was the loudest of all, directing harshly worded commands to nurses and a junior doctor. The sharp odor of antiseptic stung her nose. A gap opened up between people, just wide enough for her to see the Mr. Reynolds lying back on the pillow, his eyes shut, before someone gently grasped her shoulder and pull her away from the bed.

Monica felt her teeth clacking together, and realized that every part of her was trembling. She blinked at Head Nurse. "I know his name. Reynolds. He told me. Peregrine Giles Reynolds."

A heavy hand patted her shoulder. "Yes, dear. Let's get you someplace quiet and you can tell me about it."

Her nurse's cap firmly in place, Lucy shook her head. "Poor Monica! If I'd been a minute later, our patient may well have been in terrible danger. Don't think that she could have held out much longer by herself," Lucy said as Head Nurse Green steered Monica out of the room. "Good thing that _I'm_ able to handle emergencies."

"Ooh, _there's_ a bit of cheek," Monica heard herself saying as the dazed feeling began to wear off. "I called for help, I _did_, and she asked what I'd done to him instead of helping -"

"Shh." Face stern, Head Nurse jerked her head towards curious onlookers. Monica fell silent, understanding the need to for hospital staff to present a unified front. She let the more experienced woman lead her out of sight and towards a sink. The colder air of the corridor hit her hands, making the blood on them feel suddenly thick, like painted-on gloves. Usually, blood held little fear for her, but the _reason_ for it...Monica couldn't scrub her hands, fingernails, and forearms hard enough.

"Stop that, Nurse Hicks, before you break your own skin. Come with me." The expression in the older woman's eyes was kind, even concerned. Previously, Monica had found Head Nurse to be a professional and considerate leader. Although not particularly warm in her manner, the woman spoke to her in a way that recognized her humanity, which Monica appreciated. Now, as she walked with the Head Nurse to her office, the woman kept up a stream of conversation meant to put her at ease.

"You're all right, then? No injuries to yourself? Don't feel nervous, dear. You did the right thing, I know your work. This wasn't your fault. I know that you tried to help him. You'll need to speak to the Police, which you may do in my office. Don't think of changing out of your uniform yet. The Police need to see things as they were, as I've learned from working in public hospitals – no situations quite like this one, not exactly, but one does learn something of their routines."

The Head Nurse's office, though small and painted in cool hospital colors, was made brighter by pieces of framed needlepoint and a few carved, painted tourist items from various former British colonies.

"Right, let's see your hands. Any small cuts?"

Monica frowned. "I didn't hurt him, never touched a knife," she said defensively.

"No, but that doesn't mean you couldn't have scraped them on something, thereby admitting his blood to your wounds."

Feeling her face grow hot, Monica let her shoulders relax. "Oh, sorry. I didn't think of gloves. I wanted to stop the bleeding."

"A correct and honorable impulse, but nurses fall ill like anyone else. At least you used the towel." Head Nurse turned each of Monica's freshly scrubbed hands over in turn, scanning them for breaks in the skin. "Use cream at night, if you're in the habit of scrubbing so hard. Nice skin like yours needs keeping up."

Monica blinked. "Th-thank you, Nurse. I use cocoa butter."

"Sounds lovely. Something from the West Indies, I suppose? Must have to go all the way to London for such things. Well, you haven't got any wounds. I could do with a few less stabbings both outside the hospital and in. What _is _the world coming to, one wonders. Tea?"

**…**

_**At the Police Department, Oxford**_

Morse had finished filing the last bit of paperwork for a recent case a quarter of an hour before; the week had been slow. Now he sketched boxes, lines, words, trying to connect the loose threads of what Monica told him about the car accident victim the night before. She'd slept over at his last night, slipping out quite early in the morning to prepare for work. Sleeping with Monica – _only_ sleeping – had relaxed him almost to the point of contentment. Once, he'd awoken to find their fingers loosely entwined across the warm curve of her belly. That, like the sweet, vaguely chocolaty scent of the lotion she applied to her hands at night, was something he'd not easily forget. Morse awoke just enough for a goodbye kiss when she left, dozing off before he remembered to ask her to gather more details about the mystery patient.

_Club Crastino_

_in flagrante delicto, compos sui_

Endeavour scoffed. Such doggerel Latin would be used as a flourish by a dilettante, not a scholar. A business might think it gave a veneer of 'class' to their business card. The club didn't appear in the telephone directory. Unlicensed liquor sales? Safe guess. Perhaps sales of women's attentions, too.

Detective Inspector Thursday strode over to him, his hat on his head and one arm already in his overcoat sleeve. "Off we go, Morse. Car. Hospital."

"What's happened, sir?"

"Assault of a patient, already stabbed, knifed again whilst in bed. A nurse interrupted, raised the alarm."

Morse never relied on pure, illogical intuition, but apprehension prickled across the back of his neck. The pencil in his hand fell onto his desk blotter. "Injured? Dead? Who?"

"No deaths nor names yet, but plenty of questions."

Light midday traffic and uneasy gut feelings tempted Morse to speed to the hospital, but his natural caution dampened any desire for recklessness. Thursday filled in the missing pieces. "Here's what we have. Today a man came in with a knife and tried to speed the progress of a patient towards the grave. A nurse saw the man running away, called for help, and tried to stop the bleeding."

Morse inhaled so loudly that Thursday turned his head sharply to look at him. "Did he hurt her – ah, how badly did he hurt the patient?" More asked, his voice slightly too loud inside the car.

Squinting at Morse, Thursday said, "_Victim's_ still alive. We'll find out more through questioning. "

"Uh, sir..." Morse slowed a bit to turn a corner and avoid a cyclist. "Sir, was the victim a posh type, stabbed, brought in last night?"

Thursday rubbed his chin. "Officers dealt with the crash site last night in accordance with the usual procedures. Been tapping phone calls, Morse? P'raps you should brief _me_ on this situation."

As the shapes of hospital buildings grew closer, Morse cleared his throat, an unwanted blush creeping over his cheekbones. "There's something I should tell you."

"Wondered when you'd get to that," Thursday returned dryly.

"One of the nurses that helped that man told me about him last night. She said that they had to cut him out of an expensive suit, and when he did speak he was disoriented; they couldn't get his name. The stabbing wasn't robbery. He had fifty pounds on him notes and a card from what seems like a private club, in Latin. She remembered what was on the card. I translated it."

Thursday nodded. "I'd expect nothing less of you. What did it say?"

"_Club Crastino, _and under that the slogan _in flagrante delicto, compos sui_. Roughly, it's 'Club Tomorrow, caught in the act, having the full use of one's limbs'."

"Never heard of it. I'll speak with Vice."

"Normally I wouldn't mention a private conversation, but in this case…" Morse felt as though he were fumbling for words, but D.I. Thursday only nodded.

"It's a good thing you told me; it may help to settle this quickly. And you know this nurse _how, _exactly?"

Morse took a deep breath. "Neighbor."

"Oh? Do you often chat about police matters?"

"No. I don't violate confidentiality with her, nor does she tell me everything about her patients."

"Right. Look here: both of us interview the nearest witnesses. If your mystery nurse turns out to be the one that was in the room with the assailant, then I lead the interview with her." At Morse's questioning glance, Thursday explained, "I need to know if she tells me the same story that she told you. Anyone else, we can interview separately."

…

Morse turned to see Monica and two other nurses approach them from down the hospital corridor, inhaling audibly as he saw the dried blood stains and smears on Monica's skirt and one of her legs. Thursday's deep voice dropped to an even lower register as the women came closer.

"Which?" he asked quietly.

* * *

Thanks for taking time to read! Constructive critique welcome. Again, this story does not follow Inspector Morse canon particularly closely. Please allow for some flexibility re: timeline/people/places/procedures. Original characters and storyline are the intellectual property of Zizi West.


	4. For Goodness' Sake, Do Ask

_**STROKE**_

An _Endeavour_ fanfiction story

Author: Zizi West

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters except the OCs, and don't profit from this. Original characters and storylines are my own. This story does **not** adhere strictly to Inspector Morse canon, and takes place about 1 month after Morse and Monica finally have their first date. Consider it a story about what happens off camera, in between the events of the series.

Warnings: none.

**Chapter 4: For Goodness' Sake, Do Ask**

_**In the hospital corridor, Oxford**_

Morse responded to D.I. Thursday's question with a barely perceptible tilt of his head. Thursday cast a narrow sidelong look at his junior partner, noting the direction of Morse's gaze – and his frown as he saw the blood stains on one nurse's uniform and stocking.

Walking as nimbly as the brunette, gray-eyed nurse beside her, Monica approached. Her smooth, dark skin contrasting with the blue, white, green, and silver metallic colors of the hospital. She looked efficient and capable, like she belonged there, until she came close enough for Morse to see her expression. Until now, there been no reason for him to see her cry, but the puffiness around her eyes hinted that she had wept, and quite recently. The realization unsettled him.

Head Nurse Green and D.I. Thursday exchanged a nod. "Welcome back, Detective Thursday. Here you are, and it's not even Saturday night yet."

"Does trouble ever wait for the weekend, Nurse Green? How are you?"

"Well enough, for all this morning's trouble. Our nurse handled it properly, though." The older woman cast an approving look – not precisely a smile – at Monica.

The young brunette nurse spoke without waiting for an introduction. "Hello, gentlemen. I'm Nurse Patience Cokes. We've met before, Mr. Thursday." Although she addressed the older man, she aimed a curious look at Morse.

"Yes, I remember you, Miss. And you, Nurse…?"

"Hicks." Monica and Morse spoke simultaneously.

Monica inhaled audibly, glancing nervously between the men and Patience. Clearing her throat, she said, "Monica Hicks." Thursday's eyebrows rose nearly as high as his hairline, but he smoothly continued, "I'm Detective Inspector Thursday, and this is Detective Morse."

Endeavour nodded to Patience in acknowledgement - "Nurse Cokes" - but watched Monica. All of a sudden, he realized that he'd come to know her well enough to see that she blushed. Had he been reckless enough to stroke her cheek, he'd have felt heat rising in her face. D. I. Thursday doffed his hat and Monica half-smiled at the gentlemanly gesture.

Morse's tone was abrupt. "Are you hurt?" It looked odd for him to stand so close to Monica but he couldn't help it. It bothered him that he couldn't embrace her, bloodstained clothing and all. Had they been alone, he could have held her close and offered soothing, nonsensical murmurs and kisses. She'd often done the same for him when he was tired or frustrated. Despite her independence and self-confidence, Monica seemed to crave affection – getting and giving.

"No, I'm not hurt," Monica answered softly. At her waist, her hands moved anxiously, clasping, unclasping while D.I. Thursday explained the need for questioning.

"I wasn't there," Patience said. "You'll need to ask a different nurse, Lucy. I'm just here for Monica. She could do with a bit of looking after." Blushing, Morse looked away first. The other nurse was pretty in kind of wholesome way, if a little tough. He'd always prided himself on maintaining an opaque expression, but this Patience person seemed the type that saw through things. How much had Monica told her?

A constable arrived, evidence camera in hand, and an uneasy Monica was directed to stand against a wall for evidence photographs of her blood-stained uniform. Still feeling a bit shaky, Monica looked cautiously at D.I. Thursday, the man Dev spoke of so admiringly. The big man's quietly alert demeanor and worn macintosh overcoat would have hinted at his profession if she'd only passed him in the street. Thursday's facial expression was mild, almost mysterious, but when they made eye contact she understood that he studied her as closely as she did him. Immediately she stood up straighter, as though posing for an identification photograph, and glanced at Dev.

_Goodness!_ How hard Endeavour Morse stared. One hand fidgeted with a small pocket-sized notebook and pencil. He looked different when he was working. The spare, wiry body that she so quietly, secretly enjoyed – capable of slow heat, languor and unhurried pleasure – was now alert, taut. Dev's penetrating gaze softened only a little when he looked at her. He was quite different when he was being Morse, and not being her Dev –

Wincing, she closed her eyes as the camera bulb flashed. _He isn't _my_ Dev. What am I to him? He's never said._ Odd, uncomfortable thoughts to have now.

"Bring that camera closer and try again," a voice muttered nearby. "Might not be able to see her face in the picture, she's that dark."

Monica bit back a retort. A person more skilled with a camera would have known where to position her to reflect light, and how to set the exposure properly instead of using up the flash. The Trinidadian photographer in her neighborhood in London would have known all of this, and would not have spoken as though the fault of bad photographs lay in her skin. But she knew better than to let anyone think she wanted to make any trouble with the police, so she kept quiet.

Before the detectives took her aside for questioning, Patience leaned near. "I've asked round and found a clean uniform that you can change into."

"Oh, you're an angel, Patience. Thank you. I don't want to go home and sit and worry. I'll work my full shift."

"Thought you would. I'd feel the same." Patience elbowed Monica gently. "Aren't you the quiet one, though? Your fella's quite the looker. He's a right choir boy, with that hair and face."

Monica smiled. "He does sing, as it happens. Goes to rehearsals in one of the Oxford chapels."

"Ever heard him and the choir? Is he as good at music as he is at detecting?"

"I wouldn't know…he's never invited me." Hearing her own words, Monica paused, then quickly added, "but I've been busy."

Patience frowned. "Oh? My lad had _me _meet his friends early on. We've been together a year now."

Some distance away, Endeavour spoke to a constable. Monica turned away and shrugged. "Oh, I think Dev just likes to manage his life in different parts."

"P'raps he's nice in other ways. Now here they come, looking for you. Find me when it's over. It'll be all right." Patience patted Monica on the shoulder and left.

* * *

_**Inside the Head Nurse's office, door closed**_

"And then, Miss Hicks, you saw him run away, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir, but I went back to my patient right away."

"Hmm." D. I. Thursday shifted in his chair. When he next spoke his voice sounded gentle, encouraging. "Here's something that I must ask you, nurse. Had anything happened earlier in the day to upset you, make you angry?"

"Oh, no. It was a rather good morning, in fact." She avoided looking at Morse; she'd begun the day close as spoons with him in bed. "All went well with the patients."

"And you get on well with your colleagues?"

Lucy's shocked face, her cry of '_What have you done?_' flashed across her thoughts. "I do try. Our profession demands much of us, and sometimes one may be short-tempered, but that fades. We must all strive together, and petty rivalries only hurt us all. I know that I'm the…only _one_ working on this ward, but I have made friends here."

Thursday didn't seem discomfited by her mention of race. "Miss, you're the only witness to what happened. You saw him, but no-one saw _you_."

Gasping, Monica leaned back in her chair. "Me? Why would I hurt him? The poor man had only just begun talking. I'd never harm a patient! I put my whole heart into this work." She heard herself gulping air, feeling sick.

Endeavour leaned forward. "Monica, it's not an accusation. The question's just procedure."

"Did someone say I did it?" she snapped. "Oh, the cheek!" Unconsciously, she made the smacking sound that she did when angry or annoyed, an intake of air sucked against her teeth. Morse's expression showed that he recognized it, but he kept his tone professional. "Circumstances might lead some to ask the question."

"Another nurse, Lucy, came in and saw me. Did anyone ask if she saw the man run away? I couldn't chase him. I had to help Mr. Reynolds." Monica glanced between Thursday and Morse. "Patients come first."

A knock rattled the door. "Sir! Found something. Left in a stairwell."

'Something' turned out to be a blood stained, expensive gentleman's overcoat and a crumpled, once fine felt hat. Monica identified both as resembling the clothing worn by the man with the knife. Inspection of the overcoat revealed a name neatly embroidered along the edge of an inside pocket: _Mr. Peregrine G. Reynolds_.

"But that's his own name," Monica said. "The patient. He told me, just before this happened. He wasn't wearing that mac nor a coat of any sort when he was brought in last night." She explained how Reynolds had had to be cut out of his clothes. Upon Morse's request, Head Nurse Green unlocked the cupboard used to store patient belongings. Morse peered closely at the business card that Monica had told him about the night before - _Club Crastino, in flagrante delicto _– and copied the information on his notepad_._ Nothing else, aside from the large amount of money Reynolds had carried, revealed much.

One of the other policemen called out to D. I. Thursday, and he excused himself to speak with his colleague.

"Did I do the right thing?" Monica asked Endeavour in a low voice. "Honestly, I told both of you everything I can remember."

Morse and motioned with his head for Monica to follow him into an alcove. Once out of sight, he leaned forward for a fast kiss. "I believe you, and I'm very glad that you weren't hurt. Stay near other people. Call the police at once if something else happens." He pulled several coins from his pocket, placing them in her hand. "Take a cab home. I can't pick you up in time for the end of your shift. I'll be busy with the paperwork for this case."

Monica shook her head and put the coins back into his palm. "That's kind of you, Dev, but I'll take the bus at the same time as one of the other nurses or staff."

"Come on, accept it. Unless you can wait until we finish here, and I can see you home early?"

"The Head Nurse already suggested that I go home, but I'm staying to work the rest of my shift today. Mr. Reynolds should worry, not me."

Morse frowned. "_Do_ listen to me. I want you safe." He pressed the money back into her hand, closing her fingers around it. "_Cab, _Monica."

"Where's Morse got to?" someone asked from the corridor.

"Sorry, but I'm needed."

"Aren't you always?" she said, and kissed his cheek. "See you tonight, I hope."

* * *

Staying busy was the best prescription for Monica because she had little time to worry. Other patients needed care and attention. When she finished her rounds, she asked for routine tasks, hard work, anything to block the memory of Mr. Reynolds' betrayed expression and bloody bed.

Somehow she found herself assisting with an accident that wasn't an emergency, but a welcome distraction all the same. "Nurse Hicks! One more set of hands needed for this one. Forearm splint."

The patient was a pale, sweating young man with a mop of dark, wavy hair. As Monica entered he inhaled air between his teeth, making a hissing sound in response to the pain. Nurse Green and a doctor appeared to have everything under control, but then the young man's full lips opened to let loose a string of loud, angry foreign words. French ones.

Many of those words were probably dreadfully rude, and she was glad not to know them. Monica recognized the sound from the language learning records available from the lending library, as well as the subtitled art films that she'd seen with her friends at the local repertory cinema. The moody French actors spoke in ways unlike the voices on the records. Their gazes sultry, they muttered around cigarettes dangling from their lips. Monica and her girlfriends murmured their admiration anyway. _Yves Montand_, they intoned over drinks afterward. _Jean-Paul Belmondo_. _Alain Delon_. Knowing that their own pronunciation was rotten, they burst into laughter. _Who needs the same language? Ooh_, _la la!_ _That Alain Delon – I_ _would_, Monica admitted shamelessly, _and it wouldn't require much talking. _Another eruption of giggles.

"Doctor, Nurse Green, how may I help?"

Opening his eyes at the sound of a new voice, the young man stared at Monica. His dark brown eyes almost looked black. "Ahh…" he said on a long exhale, suddenly wincing as the doctor and Nurse Green settled a splint against his injured arm.

"Keep him calm, if you can," Nurse Green said dryly, giving Monica a look that spoke of vexation. Monica nodded and stepped forward. Not everyone made a good patient.

Monica acknowledged the patient with a smile. "I see that you're in good hands with the doctor and Nurse Green. I'm Nurse Hicks. Er, _sois calme_, _monsieur,_" she managed. "Take deep breaths, like this."

He shuddered with pain again, but matched his breathing to hers. "_Parlez Francais? Êtes-vous aux Caraïbes? 1"_

"Sorry, sir, no more French. You just heard most of what I know. But yes, my family are Jamaican."

"_Est-ce donc 2? _Your French accent, it's not terrible." He appeared to regret his words. "_Euh_, I mean to say, you speak well, Miss Hicks. Please, call me Romain."

Monica decided against mentioning the language records. "They're going to wrap that tight now, sir –" He lifted one eyebrow, and his lower lip moved forward in a pout. "Romain, then. You'll feel more pain, but this will be over soon." The young man's fingers tightened around hers, but he didn't curse again. Instead he matched her deep breaths until the procedure ended.

"Doctor, Nurse Green, I am sorry to be rude to you," he said earnestly. "I had much pain but I know you didn't cause it. Please, I am sorry. Thank you all for helping me."

"That's all right." The junior doctor was one that Monica worked with infrequently. He was kinder and more tolerant of both patients and staff than was Dr. Amies. "Follow the directions I gave you, and that arm will improve inside of three weeks. Until then, no activity more strenuous than studying."

An Oxford student, then. Maybe this would make a diverting story to tell Patience and the others. Guiltily, she thought of Endeavour. The young Frenchman was attractive and seemed to be in no hurry to release her hand. His fingers were long and slim, like Dev's. Feeling self-conscious, Monica pulled away, but not before Romain rose to his feet, bowing over her hand. There was no kiss, but his breath whispered across her knuckles. "_Mademoiselle._"

"Enough flirting – let my nurse alone! This is a place of _work_." Nurse Green snapped. "Nurse Hicks! We're finished here." The last glimpse that Monica had of the young man's expression was hard to interpret. Had he actually been mocking her? Romain hadn't smelled of liquor; maybe he was just coldly sarcastic. She quickly followed Head Nurse Green out of the room.

"All high-and-mighty hormones, those Oxford boys," muttered Nurse Green as they strode down the corridor. "Foreigners make it worse. I won't have that sort of kerb-crawling behavior here. You girls deal with enough foolishness as it is." She slowed her pace to remove her glasses and wipe them on her handkerchief. "Speaking of which, 'tis past time you went home. It's nigh six o'clock and you've run yourself off your feet today. When you return on Monday I want to see you well-rested."

Saturday and Sunday off? A luxury, or time not spent earning her wages and maintaining a good impression. "But ma'am, I've a Sunday night shift," Monica protested.

Nurse Green shrugged. "Aye, and a slow shift it is, oftentimes."

"This is so kind of you, Head Nurse, but I won't shirk my duty. Really, I'm I feel fine now. I'd rather work Sunday as expected."

"No. I'll put the sick note in writing and make sure that it goes into your file." The telephone rang in Nurse Green's office, and the older woman strode away before Monica could protest.

* * *

_**Monica's flat, fifty-five minutes later**_

The post held a letter from her mother, as though it were a normal day.

Her mother's letter was a long, perfectly aligned paragraph of painstakingly neat handwriting.

_Dearest Monica,_

_Our Trevor and his Mary have by the grace of God now got a house in Notting Hill. All ready for the baby. It is a good marriage. When you come back you must speak to them about buying a house. You could work in London and have a better chance at a husband. I know you don't like me saying this to you but if you mean to try for a husband you must do it soon. Time does fly. Here we and our friends can help you find a good man. Family always will help you. I know you are pleased with your job but who will care for you in Oxford? There aren't enough West Indian men or maybe you meet African men there but our ways of life are so very different, you must be know each other carefully if one does ask you on a date. All this 'dating' does not sit well with me it was better in my day when the families and neighbours knew each other so you knew more of the man. It sounds funny but we could investigate each other –_

The choice of wording made Monica groan aloud.

_\- so at least you knew what you got. _

_We hope and pray that you will come to London at the holiday. May Jesus protect you always._

_Love,_

_Mother_

Carefully folding the letter, Monica replaced it in its envelope and placed it into a box that she'd covered with remnants of last year's Christmas wrapping paper. The box held other letters and postcards sent by family and friends. Nothing from Dev. Would he write to her if one of them ever traveled?

_But who will care for you in Oxford?_

* * *

Thank you for reading – and posting reviews, should you feel so inclined.

1 You speak French? Are you from the Caribbean?

2 Is that so?


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